


as i lay me down to sleep

by completist



Category: Banana Fish (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Crossover, Emotional Manipulation, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-10
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-11-15 00:04:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18062759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/completist/pseuds/completist
Summary: A year after the tragic event that made the foundations of his life in Japan crumble to dust, Eiji moves to New York City with hopes that its noisy streets and blinding lights will be enough for him to hide his talents from the police and start his life anew. But when a trip to Cape Cod made him stumble upon a series of killings similar to the ones he saw, even the noisy streets and blinding lights of his new home aren't enough to keep the fragile threads of Eiji's sanity together.





	as i lay me down to sleep

**Author's Note:**

> Hiiiii! This is the wip of an au that became another au that became another au and now I think I know what's going to happen so I decided to post it!
> 
> Tags/Characters/Relationships will be updated as the work progresses. This fic is unbeta'd so any dumb mistakes are mine :P

**New York City, 2009**

 

New York is beautiful, and intense. Like it could swallow you alive without you knowing it and breathe into you a life the likes of which you have never known; simultaneously, or maybe at the same time, it’s hard to tell. New York is disconcerting, its streets that can be dark and alive but also light and dead; a dichotomy that leans towards the paradoxical with every whip of the wind yet never quite falls. There will always be something that separates what happens in New York, not only from the world but to New York itself. Like the most beautiful soul could trod upon its ground and New York could hardly care less, like the kindest smile would flash in its streets and New York would barely spare it a glance.

New York is loud, and solitary. Like its people exists together, alongside each other, but also always alone. Triviality holds no place in this city’s bounds, something is always happening and it will always mean something but it doesn’t mean that it will be remembered. Its streets will always be busy, the walls of its buildings always holding more than what it should. A flap of wings could change the course of events, and New York would still be New York.

New York is… stunning, as the sun rises over the horizon, bathing the city in soft hues of yellow, painting some stark walls gold, and exposing the dirt of others to anyone who would dare see; and as Eiji steps into the car, a new dawn once again breaks over the city.

Eiji feels like being gifted the first breath of a new world, yet the city feels old around him, wild and enduring; its history something Eiji could never touch.

The sound of a camera snaps him out of his reverie, “Welcome to New York, Eiji.”

Smiling, Eiji returns his gaze to the view sweeping past his window, “Thank you, Ibe-san.”

 

 

 

 

The leather armchair feels thick and uncomfortable in the places it touches his body; the room feels stuffy and crowded and for the lack of better word, _obnoxious._

The office sports a modern and sleek design—sharp, elegant colors of maroon and white contrasting with the deep brown of the huge oak table to his right. Other than that, Eiji doesn’t have anything else to say about it. It all looks so… achingly Yut-lung that he’s reminded of the days back in Japan. Days that he no longer wants to remember now.

The old grandfather clock reads 3:13—an unnecessary glance to the open sky— _pm_. Why Yut-lung keeps a grandfather clock in such a modernized space escapes his understanding.

“I didn’t realize you’d earn the guts to leave Japan, Eiji.” Yut-lung greets him, and Eiji absolutely _hates_ this part. When they’re pretending to be friends right before their ‘psych’ sessions where Yut-lung would listen to him but will not, even in the least bit, believe him.

He had, at some point, insisted that maybe what he just needs is a friend who will listen and _understand._ Yut-lung is that. Sure, he is. But the thing is, he doesn’t do that as a friend, he listens and understands as a psychiatrist.

The carved angel above the door looks like its mocking him with its soft smile. Eiji tries to stifle a snort, belatedly realizing that this is why Yut-lung is always tempted to call him crazy.

“How do you find New York so far?” He asks, taking the seat across Eiji and crossing his legs. It’s ridiculous how regal and respectable he looks despite nursing a glass of wine during work hours, his long hair intricately braided.

With a shrug, Eiji lets his gaze roam around the room, blinking at the reflection of the replica of Juan Luna's  _Spolarium_ on the grandfather clock, Eiji resists the urge to turn his head and look at the hauntingly gorgeous piece. “It’s stunning, definitely inspires a lot as a photographer.”

He definitely has more to say but he’d let Yut-lung do his job of prompting him with questions he could have said the answers to without being asked in the first place; his attention falls on the copy of Salinger’s _A Perfect Day for Banana Fish_ sitting innocently at the bookshelf behind his friend.

“But you’re not just a photographer.”

“Since when did you have the patience for Salinger?”

A deep sigh. The clock now reads 3:21pm. Sunlight streams into the room, illuminating the huge oak table to their right, giving the room a calm, ethereal glow. It’s beautiful.

“Eiji.” The way Yut-lung said his name had him snapping out of his reverie, deciding that he doesn’t like how he said it this time. Like it’s a responsibility, like Eiji is a stubborn child who wouldn’t listen.

“I don’t like the hotel rooms.” Eiji relents, “They’re… bland.”

“Bland?”

Nodding, he continues, fingernails tracing random patterns on the armchair. He wonders if Yut-lung is keeping a copy of the photographs he took when they went to Vatican City somewhere in this cold office. “Impersonal. Unfeeling.”

“They’re hotel rooms, Eiji.” Yut-lung chastises, “Not a customizable studio.”

“The windows are wide and uncovered.”

“You could always request for a better curtain.” Yut-lung places his now empty glass on the low table between them, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, “Eiji, no one’s watching.”

“The building across—”

“—is more than fifteen meters away. Eiji, _no one_ is watching.”

“Someone is always watching.”

“The police already dropped all charges against you, no one is monitoring your movements. You’re no longer a suspect, Eiji.”

“They’re real.”

“What are ‘they’?”

Eiji shakes his head. The clock reads 3:26pm, Yut-lung sighs.

“Have you been sleeping enough?”

Heaving a deep sigh of his own, Eiji casts his gaze at the ceiling, “I was stuck in a plane for two days.”

“So you’re not.”

“It’s not a matter of sleep—”

“You’re not getting enough rest—”

“I keep telling you, they’re real!”

The clock gives a single echoing chime. 3:30pm.

“I didn’t mean to shout, Yue.” Eiji says, pinching his right thumb. “I’m sorry.”

Silence. Deafening silence. Eiji is almost sure that Yut-lung can hear the fast beating of his heart. The afternoon sun is bright and piercing and it's like that day back in Japan, with the marble stones and black, flowing robes; the smell of flowers suffocating, the tears in his eyes blinding.

Yut-lung stands and closes the blinds, flicking the switch of the overhead lights on, chasing away the shadows lingering at the corners and dark, empty spaces of the room. He murmurs a soft, “Thank you.”

“Tell me about the New York police, then. FBI or something. Aren’t they interested in your talents?”

Eiji removes the non-existent dirt on his jacket, fingers itching to grasp his camera, “I suppose they are, but I haven’t expressed… desire to work with them.”

“After what happened in Japan?” Yut-lung promptly asks, holding a pen and a deep red notebook before once again taking his seat.

With a shake of his head, Eiji gives in to the desire to touch his camera; picking the device up from his feet and pulling it out of its bag. He pretends not to notice the note Yut-lung writes on his notebook. He stopped his habit of reading his writing upside down after being called out every damn time. “Not exactly.” came his whispered reply.

“Eiji, you are aware of how useful your talents are, right?” A nod, “They’re no longer monitoring you, whatever they say no longer holds true.”

“Whatever _you_ say will hold true.” he retorts, willing his hands to stop shaking.

A beat. A second of silence too long. Bile attempts to rise up his throat and Eiji shuts his eyes closed.

Yut-lung moves to kneel in front of him, clasping his shaking hands in his. “Remember this, Eiji. Monsters aren’t real but humans are.”

 

 

 

 

The sign above the restaurant reads _Chang Dai._

“Shunichi!” A booming voice greeted them, and Eiji watches as the tall man hugs Ibe with such familiarity, “Long time no see, man!”

“Max,” Ibe replies, grinning. “It’s good to finally see you again!”

“You always see me.”

“Yes, on Skype.”

Eiji lets their banter replace the background noise that was the hustle of the New York Chinatown. Somehow, its difficult to coalesce this man in front of him to the one Ibe-san always talks about. He had imagined a cold exterior, sharp eyes, and calculated movements. He had imagined a man whose instinct is so strong he’d be able to tell what’s wrong in a room the moment before he steps inside.

Not that Mr. Lobo does not look like it, he just seems... _different._ But Eiji has learnt that there’s always something more than what meets the eye. A single photograph could tell a hundred stories.

“Eiji, this is Max.” Ibe introduces, “Max, Eiji—he’s my assistant.”

“Oh, you look familiar!” Max replies, and there it is: the recognition, the thoughts running miles per hour, racing to reach the answer, “I can’t place it yet, but you look familiar.”

With a smile, Eiji hopes he never places the familiarity of his face. He extends a hand in greeting. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Lobo.”

“Please, call me Max. And likewise, Eiji.”

They began talking about the things Eiji could barely catch up with so he brings out his notebook instead, the hairs at the back of his neck standing at the feeling of being watched.

**Author's Note:**

> so...........how is it so far??? 
> 
> hmu on [twitter](https://twitter.com/completist_) and [tumblr](http://queen---queer.tumblr.com/)!


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